The chamber was still buzzing when the gavel struck.
"Court resumes," the presiding witch announced, her voice steady though her eyes betrayed tension. "As voted upon, the phoenix bonded to Mister Oliver Night will be summoned into the courtroom for inspection."
All eyes turned to Oliver.
His throat was dry, but he didn't hesitate. He stood, Nyx's absence heavy on his shoulder where she usually perched. He lifted his wand, steady despite the trembling in his stomach, and whispered the call he and Nyx had come to understand—not words, not quite, but a plea shaped in magic.
For a moment, silence. Then—
A low hum vibrated through the chamber, soft at first, then rising, a resonant screech threaded with something melodic. The Wizengamot shifted uncomfortably, hands pressing to their robes as the sound curled around them. It wasn't painful—it was answering. It was Nyx's voice, distant yet near, reverberating as though the stone itself carried it.
Gasps rose as the torches flickered, dimmed, and then were eclipsed by a fire unlike any flame the Ministry had ever known.
Dark blue fire roared into existence at the center of the chamber, shimmering as if it carried stars within. It was not ordinary flame—it was as though the veil of the sky had torn open, and the galaxy itself spilled through. The fire pulsed with depth, infinite and breathtaking, swallowing the courtroom in its glow.
From the heart of that cosmic blaze, wings unfurled. Black feathers edged in deep, glowing blue cut through the fire, scattering sparks like fragments of starlight. Nyx stepped forward, her body wreathed in the celestial flame, her eyes—sky blue, vast and endless—locking on Oliver.
The fire guttered out, leaving only the phoenix, calm and steady, standing in the center of the chamber. She spread her wings once, a ripple of heatless light rolling across the stone, and then folded them neatly against her sides.
The Wizengamot sat in stunned silence. Even the quills had gone still.
Fudge recovered first, though his voice wavered before finding its bluster. "Behold! Even her appearance—such power, such spectacle. You see how every gaze is drawn to her, how every heart quails at her cry? Is that safety? Is that stability? Or is that intimidation dressed in feathers?"
Some members nodded uneasily. Others merely stared, unable to look away.
Oliver clenched his fists. He could feel Nyx's presence through the bond—her calm, her steady heartbeat, her unwavering trust. His chest burned with it, and before he realized, he was standing taller, shoulders squared, his voice breaking the hush.
"She came because I called her. Not because she was forced. She came because she chose to answer."
The chamber shifted, startled by his tone.
He looked directly at Fudge, his eyes bright, his voice steady. "You call it intimidation. I call it proof. She doesn't burn what she doesn't want to burn. She doesn't strike who she doesn't want to strike. She's not fire without thought—she's alive. She's chosen. And you can't put that in chains."
As he spoke, something stirred within him. His aura flared, invisible at first, then undeniable—a pressure that filled the chamber. It wasn't wild or uncontrolled; it was focused, directed. Those he looked at—Fudge, Lucius, Umbridge—shifted uncomfortably in their seats, their eyes sliding away as though meeting his gaze was suddenly too much.
The gallery whispered, unease and awe mingling. Some clutched their robes tighter; others leaned forward, hungry for more.
Oliver didn't flinch. He didn't sit back down. For the first time, he felt the balance shift—not because of Dumbledore, or the Flamels, or anyone else, but because of him.
"I'm not someone you can push around," he said, his voice ringing clearer now. "And neither is she."
The words struck like hammer blows. Even the torches seemed to burn brighter in the silence that followed.
The silence that followed Oliver's words stretched on, heavy and unbroken. Wizengamot members shifted in their seats, quills hung in midair, and for the first time since the trial began, Fudge himself seemed at a loss.
Lucius Malfoy recovered first, his voice smooth but not as steady as before. "Impressive rhetoric, to be sure. But passion does not erase risk. A boy who can sway a chamber merely with his presence—does that not prove instability rather than fitness?"
Oliver turned his gaze on him, aura pressing outward, not wild but resolute. Lucius faltered, his words thinning, his fingers tightening on his cane. The murmurs in the gallery sharpened: some awed, others unsettled.
Dumbledore rose with deliberate calm. "No, Mister Malfoy. It proves conviction. It proves will. The very traits that enable a phoenix to bond at all. You see intimidation; I see proof that this boy, though young, will not bend to fearmongering or malice."
He gestured toward Nyx, who stood serene, feathers catching the torchlight like threads of starlight. "Look at her. Does she thrash? Does she rage? No. She is calm because he is calm. This is not chaos. This is harmony."
Nicolas Flamel followed, his voice quiet but steady. "I have lived longer than most in this chamber. I have seen bonds broken, and I have seen them honored. To break this one would be to wound not just a bird, not just a boy, but the very magic that binds them. And magic," his gaze swept the benches, "does not forgive such wounds."
Perenelle's voice joined his, warm but firm. "You ask for proof. Look at them. The boy speaks, and the phoenix answers. The phoenix arrives, and the boy steadies. This is proof. Not words. Not theory. Proof."
Newt Scamander shuffled forward, Tina at his side. His voice was softer, but it carried weight all the same. "You called for inspection. Well—inspect. What do you see? Do you see a beast straining at its leash? Or do you see a creature who chose, freely and wholly, to stand beside its bonded? I have studied creatures the world over, and I tell you this: you cannot fake choice. And Nyx chose him."
The chamber stirred. Wizengamot members exchanged uneasy glances. Some pure-bloods whispered to each other, the sharp confidence of the morning ebbing into doubt.
Fudge slammed a hand down. "You are being blinded by sentiment! This is not about feelings—it is about safety! A child wielding powers beyond his years, commanding a creature no one can classify—are you truly willing to gamble our world on—on him?" He jabbed a finger at Oliver.
Oliver didn't flinch. He rose to his full height, meeting Fudge's glare with calm fire. "You talk about safety. You talk about control. But you're not protecting anyone—you're just afraid. Afraid of what you can't own. Afraid of me because I don't fit in your boxes. Well, I'm not a box you can close, and Nyx isn't yours to take."
His aura flared again, rolling like a wave across the chamber. Those aligned against him shifted back, faces pale, while others—once silent—leaned forward with something new in their eyes. Respect.
The presiding witch struck the gavel. "Enough." Her gaze swept the benches, sharp and unwavering. "We have heard testimony. We have seen proof. We will vote."
The chamber held its breath.
"All in favor of removing guardianship from Oliver D. Night, raise your hands."
A scattering of hands rose—fewer than before. Lucius Malfoy, a handful of staunch traditionalists, Umbridge.
"All opposed?"
Hands rose across the benches, more than Oliver dared hope. Dumbledore. McGonagall. The Flamels. The Scamanders. And many more, their robes rustling as their decision rippled through the court.
The gavel struck once, twice.
"The motion fails. The guardianship remains with Mister Night. The phoenix Nyx is hereby recognized as his bonded companion under magical law."
The chamber erupted. Some clapped, others shouted in outrage, quills scratching furiously as reporters scrambled. Fudge sagged back in his seat, face mottled with humiliation, his hat askew. Umbridge's smile was frozen, brittle and unconvincing.
Oliver sank back into his chair, breath shuddering. Nyx pressed close, trilling softly, her song weaving through the din.
Dumbledore inclined his head toward him, eyes glimmering with quiet pride. Nicolas and Perenelle offered small, approving nods, as though this was only the beginning.
As the crowd spilled out into the corridors, Oliver walked beside them, Nyx perched on his shoulder, feathers brushing his cheek. People stared, whispered, some in awe, some in resentment—but none with pity. Not anymore.
He tightened the strap of his satchel, lifted his chin, and stepped forward.
He had come into the courtroom as a boy they doubted.He left as someone the wizarding world could no longer ignore.